The High Valley. Anne Mather
old man frowned. “We are going to La Nava, senhorita, the high valley of the Rio Quimera.”
Morgana stared at him. “The high valley,” she repeated, slowly. “In Monteraverde, I suppose.”
“Of a surety, senhorita.”
Morgana bent her head. She had suspected of course, and now her suspicions were verified. But why was he telling her where they were going? Didn't he care that she knew? Could she not just as easily betray their whereabouts when she got out of this?
A disturbing doubt invaded her mind. Surely these men or their leaders did not intend to keep them prisoners. Did this old man know their plans? Or was he merely betraying a confidence himself?
The latter seemed unlikely. Vittorio might be old but he had all the alertness and cunning of a younger man, she was sure, and he was not the kind of man to say anything carelessly. But before more doubts formed in her troubled mind, the plane banked sharply and the woman at the back who had screamed before uttered a shrill cry.
“We'll crash, we'll crash!” she shouted, hysterically. “We're all doomed!” Her voice collapsed into sobbing, and Morgana glanced at her companion. Vittorio's gnarled fingers closed over the hand that rested on the arm of her seat, and he said: “Do not worry, little one. The will of God will guide us to our destination.”
Morgana's fingers gripped the arms of her seat very tightly. She was not wholly convinced that any will could secure their certain safety, and when she saw flares below them her heart leapt nauseously into her mouth. Such a narrow plateau confronted them, brilliantly lit by torches whose flames leapt high into the air, and beyond rose the ragged peaks into whose jaws plunged sudden death. She closed her eyes, feeling the sweat standing out on her forehead, and the dampness of the palms of her hands.
“Courage, little one,” said Vittorio, again, and a moment later the wheels of the aircraft hit the solid surface of the plateau.
They were rushing madly towards a wall of rock that loomed in front of them. Surely the air brakes would never stop them in time. Morgana stared blindly in front of her, dreading the moment when the grinding of metal would tell them that they were doomed.
But the grinding never came, only a sudden violent tilting of the aeroplane, and a grim striking sound as the fuselage scraped along a gravelled surface and finally brought them to an abrupt halt. There had been a strange silence in the plane during that terrifying landing, and now the passengers seemed to come to life with relieved speed.
Vittorio Salvador unfastened his safety belt and got to his feet. He could see some of the passengers beginning to stretch and move about and he said, commandingly: “No one must move yet, please. Stay in your seats. Your instructions will be given you immediately.”
There were several indignant exclamations, but in the main the passengers were acquiescent. They had all sensed that ominous tilting of the plane and it seemed apparent that the undercarriage had been damaged as they landed.
The door of the pilot's cabin opened and the pilot and his co-pilot, and the navigator, came through accompanied by another of the men with a gun. The crew looked taut and nervous and Morgana sensed the ordeal this had been for them, responsible as they were for the lives of all these people. The man Morgana had seen first across the aisle at the beginning of the flight took command. She wondered who he was. She even wondered weakly whether the Salvador brothers were involved in all this. If their uncle was involved it seemed likely. And where were they now?
“Senhores! Senhoras! Your attention, please,” the man said politely. “You will stay where you are for the present. Tonight you must sleep in the plane which should be no great hardship for you and tomorrow our leader will come to speak to you.”
The passengers grumbled amongst themselves but no one made any official demur. They all seemed relieved that they were not to be taken elsewhere and made prisoners.
The man continued: “Tomorrow it will be decided what is to be done.”
Morgana's eyes were dark with anxiety. “What do you mean?” she exclaimed. “You said you would let us go!”
Vittorio frowned warningly and she bent her head inwardly seething. The man looked down at her for a moment, and then said: “I will not warn you again, senhorita. Keep your mouth shut, is that understood?”
Morgana chewed her lip and refused to answer him and the man gave her a hard stare before continuing with his orders. There were a young couple at the back of the plane with a baby and he agreed that milk should be brought to the plane for the stewardess to heat up for them. The baby had begun to cry a little and Morgana thought its plaintive cries were eloquent of all their feelings. No one felt like being brave or trying to tackle these men. What good would it do? There were guns involved and someone was bound to get hurt. Besides, most of the passengers were middle-aged to elderly and those few who were younger had their wives with them and obviously did not wish to bring any retribution down upon them. So everyone remained in their seats, and the doors of the plane were opened to admit the sounds of the airstrip outside. Two men were left in charge and the crew were allowed to take seats in the passenger's cabin while the other men, including Vittorio Salvador, left the plane.
The pilot came and sat beside Morgana in the place Vittorio had vacated. He was a man of average height and build, greying slightly at the temples, and there was a strained worn expression on his face.
“Por deus!” he murmured, speaking Portuguese. “This is too much!”
Morgana compressed her lips. “Relax,” she said, quietly. “There's nothing you can do. There's nothing any of us can do.”
The pilot sighed and fumbled in his pocket for cigarettes. He offered one to Morgana and although she seldom smoked she took one gratefully, glad of the diversion. They smoked in silence for a while and then the pilot said: “Do you know where we are?”
Morgana bent her head. “Actually, yes. One of – of the men told me.”
The pilot stared at her. “Go on!” he said.
“We're at a place called La Nava, the high valley,” she said. “In Monteraverde.”
The pilot looked perturbed. “La Nava!” he echoed softly. “Yes, I have heard of it, senhorita, but its actual whereabouts are unknown. It is reputed to be the headquarters of O Halcão, the Hawk, leader of the guerilla forces in Monteraverde.”
Morgana frowned. Where had she heard that name before? But her brain wouldn't function properly and she shook her head impatiently. “You look worried,” she said. “Don't you think they will let us go?”
“Do you?” asked the pilot, crediting her intelligence.
She shivered. “I don't know. I don't know what to think. Why have they brought us here? What possible reason could they have?”
“I can think of several. Either there are arms hidden on the plane, or they need us as hostages, or possibly they need the plane itself.”
Morgana stubbed out her cigarette. “And we have no radio contact?”
“I'm afraid not.”
“The authorities will think we've crashed. Is there no way we can make contact?”
The pilot heaved a sigh. “How? With guns at every angle. No, Senhorita?”
“Mallory,” she supplied. “How many of us are there?”
The pilot frowned. “Well, Senhorita Mallory, we will have to wait and see what they intend to do with fifty-seven of us!”
“So many?” Morgana bit her lip. “They – they wouldn't kill us all?” She looked at him intently. “Would they?”
The pilot shook his head. “Your guess is as good as mine. But I shouldn't think it would serve much purpose if they did.”
“But can they let us go?”
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